


The Bear at the Door

by Luckyfirerabbit



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Modern Setting, blood mention, human morana, soft gay shit, werebear striga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29746539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luckyfirerabbit/pseuds/Luckyfirerabbit
Summary: (An idea I've been playing with, might or might not be full length at some point.)"Morana's mind races with all the things Striga had said in regards to tonight, in that low and somber, sadly serious tone, and with a sigh of fatigue in the face of skepticism. But how could she have possibly expected Morana to believe her? How could Morana do anything but show doubt when hearing a half-stranger say "I will turn tonight, and I want to make sure you're safe."
Relationships: Morana/Striga (Castlevania)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	The Bear at the Door

This little cabin that Morana had initially thought as quaint and inviting suddenly felt like a prison cell. Well, something like that, because, at present, her frantic mind is struggling with a number of things, such as what this particular cell was supposed to do -keep her in, or keep that... _thing_ out.

 _If you mean to stay, then stay._ _**Do not** _ _leave the house until after sunrise. And_ _**do not** _ _open the door unless I ask for you by name._

Because names were hard, she had said.

Morana's mind races with all the things Striga had said in regards to tonight, in that low and somber, sadly serious tone, and with a sigh of fatigue in the face of skepticism. But how could she have possibly expected Morana to believe her? How could Morana do anything but show doubt when hearing a half-stranger say "I will turn tonight, and I want to make sure you're safe."

All of this had suddenly become so strange, so surreal, so terrifying, and it all shows in the way Morana hides in the darkness within the little house, having turned off the light in a frantic bid to hedge her bets. She didn't know if that thing had seen the lights before she could darken them, had no way of knowing, but it had been so quiet so far...

Morana holds her breath, going so far as to cover her mouth with her shaking hands, listening more intently than ever. Because something in her _knows_ she would be able to hear it if it was close. Something so big, how couldn't she?

Still...nothing but the stillness of night waited outside these walls.

But there is no sigh of relief, no moment to relax, not when Morana is convinced this peace could just as quickly shatter as it had formed. So she simply sits, stock still on the floor, her back hermetically sealed to the wall between the tired, second-hand sofa and the window. Her wide eyes stare what seems like miles through the darkened room, her heart pounding ceaselessly.

But she doesn't remain there the entire night. At some point, her brain decides it's been long enough without any evidence of danger, that it was all right to relax just a little. She still moves in short bursts, mechanical ratcheting of a body too wary of making even the smallest sound. When Morana stands up, pausing long enough to wait for something to happen until it doesn't, her mind starts buzzing with what to do now that she's here.

_There's a gun above the door. Striga taught you how to use it, just in case you had to._

Oh my god, would she really do that? Morana remembers how silly she thought it was for Striga to show her the shotgun, where the ammunition was, how to load it -because why on earth would she need to? This wasn't even her home, so how could she ever feel right in defending it with lethal force?

 _She meant for it to defend your life_.

That was a different matter altogether. Her eyes lift to peer through the shadows in the general direction of where she remembers the door being, thinking about the weapon propped up by nails above the entry. Even if she did manage to reach it, pull it down and decided to keep it, would she even have the guts to pull the trigger?

_I've only known her...not even ten days...but I don't want to have to..._

And the notion has absolutely _nothing_ to do with how beautiful Striga is. Absolutely _nothing_.

 _Not a good time_. Morana mentally berates herself, physically cringing just to drive it home and make it keep. She forces herself to take a step forward, then another, and another, finally she's standing in front of the door, her hands out to feel the rough wooden surface, the iron bar across its width that's padlocked in place -just as Striga had instructed her to do.

She reaches up, her fingertips just touching the cold steel of a barrel, pausing.

_I can't._

Her hands drop sharply, hands in fists at her sides. Instead she turns away, creeping through the house as quietly as she can, finding her coat and a blanket to wrap herself up in before finding the darkest corner that is farthest from any of the windows -which is the cramped bathroom, but she didn't seem to mind.

There she stays through the night, jerking in and out of fitful naps at the slightest impression of a sound somewhere, never mind if there actually was one.

A loud _thump_ is what pulls her out of sleep completely, one heavy enough to rattle the door bar and the padlock and the deadbolt and Morana's bones. Just one, and Morana can't decided if that's comforting or not as she twists stiffly out of her cramped sleeping arrangement. She doesn't need to rub the sleep from her eyes, doesn't dare yawn, she just cautiously leans out of the bathroom doorway to survey the rest of the house. Bars of light are coming through the spaces in the shutters over the windows, giving Morana something like comfort in the idea of daylight.

 _**Thump** _ _-thump_.

Morana jumps, gaze cutting to the door fast enough to catch the jarring jerk of the padlock. It reminds her that the key is in her pocket, and her hand unconsciously smooths over its denim outline atop her thigh.

"Let me in," comes a deep, husky growl from the other side of the door, the words sounding like they're draped over fangs, ill fitting in the mouth. "It's cold."

But it _is_ Striga. Morana's certain of that much, but little else.

" _Open the door_ !" the jagged demand is followed by another, frighteningly harder punch against the door, making the wood jump in its moorings. But Morana remains right where she is, heart in her throat again, mind throttling the memory of what Striga had told her. _...Unless I ask for you by name_. "Please,"

She almost moved, hearing that smaller, broken plea. Her muscles tensed, one foot lifted from the floor, but then she stilled again. Morana waits to hear her own name, though it makes her feel ridiculous and awful at the same time. She feels like cowering again at the grinding, growling sound that comes from outside, punctuated by another jolt to the door that didn't so much sound like knocking as it did something dropping against it.

" _Mmmm_ -Morana, please," the word drags itself together, leaving Striga panting loudly, as if it hurt. "Please, Morana...I think I'm bleeding."

The fear vanishes, at least the fear that is self-oriented. Now it's a whole new kind, one focused on getting the key out of her pocket and hurrying across the living room. Her hands tremble and fumble with the lock, Morana hissing Arabic curses at it until she finally shoves brass into steel and turns, the half loop popping up with a click. Morana jerks it sideways and then simply lets it drop to the floor when it's loose, quickly flipping up the iron bar with a sharp squeak of a hinge before all but tearing the heavy door open.

Striga didn't come tumbling through the door, more so sagged, her hands bracing her on the rough wooden frame of the entryway, but all her strength appearing to stop at the shoulders, her torso dipping into the shadows of the door where Morana opened her arms to catch her. She's dirty, reeking of damp earth with her pale, freckled skin streaked in dirt and grass. There are twigs and leaves twisted in her hair. Morana's arms instinctively wrap about her chest, around the barreled cage of her ribs for her hands to spread across Striga's cold, slick back. There she finds the distinct stick of half dried blood, some of it in Striga's hair and holding to whatever wound was there.

It feels like a monumental effort, but Morana manages to take Striga's weight and help her the rest of the way inside, just able to kick the door shut before walking with Striga to the nearest seat. There's a chesty bark of pain as Striga drops into a chair at the little dinning table, her body immediately bending to let her brace on her elbows and appear to hug herself, body expanding and contracting with quick breaths.

"Let me look." Morana says unsteadily.

Striga twists to put her elbows on the table, dropping her shoulder to expose most of the broad stretch of her back. Another curt, powerful grunt as Morana's hands touch tender flesh and pull hair away - a little "sorry" from Morana.

"Were you shot?" because that's what this looks like, if she had to guess. It's an ugly wound, rough edged and looking to have ruptured from underneath and dragged an inch or two upward, towards her neck. It's almost like whatever had hit her struck and then deflected off of something, maybe a bone...who knows. If it was a gun, Morana hopes the bullet isn't still in there.

"Maybe. I don't really remember." Striga speaks with noticeable ease now, but her voice is still rough and wrecked.

"This needs to be cleaned." Not just the wound, but Striga in general; blood striped down her her arm, the length of her back, even her bare ass that Morana wasn't going to stare at right now. "Do you have a kit?"

Striga is pushing a big, dirty hand through her tangled hair, scowling as she thinks. "Y-yes, yes...kitchen, by the knife block." When she realizes Morana is no longer hovering so fucking close, she drags herself out of the chair, also aiming to stagger into the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" Morana whips around, the battered metal toolbox between her hands.

"Hungry." Striga grumbles, the door of the comically smaller refrigerator open in front of her. She jerks a bundle of loosely wrapped butcher paper out of it, and thoughtlessly rips into it to pull out a fistful of raw meat that she immediately takes a yawning bite out of.

Morana simply gapes at her, having an impossible time deciding what her expression should be doing, because she can't decide between horror, revulsion, or awe. All of this is really happening and it's finally starting to settle on her in a very real way. This was all _real_. And she doesn't really know what to do about it, other than stare as Striga finishes her meal without hesitation or a sign of disgust, leaving glistening streaks of red and pink around her mouth.

"I...I-I would have cooked for you." Morana almost whispers, the strength behind her words fizzling out as they go, until the _you_ vanishes.

Striga closes the fridge door and briefly braces against it, chuffing with a weak but amused smirk. "Couldn't wait." Then she's turning away and moving stiffly back to the table where she retakes her seat.

It takes a long moment, the wires in Morana's brain helplessly sparking before she can finally move her feet. She watches Striga as she approaches the table, part of her happy to see her moving her hair out of the way as she sets the kit down and pulls it open with the squeak of tired hinges. The contents of the kit are more up to date than most of the house, and Morana finds herself a little relieved at the prospect.

There's a bottle of alcohol and plenty of gauze pads, so Morana starts with cleaning up around the wound, as much as would make it easy for Striga to bathe and get the rest of the blood out without threatening any dressing Morana would have to put in place. She takes a fresh patch of gauze and douses it with more alcohol, thoughtlessly putting it on the wound itself, only realizing what she had done when Striga tenses with a grinding shout and a toothy snarl.

" _Fffffuck_!"

"I'm sorry!" Morana immediately recoils and retreats one big step, thankfully taking the wet gauze with her.

Striga sits there panting for several seconds, hands in fists atop the table, face twisted in pain. Her teeth look too long and sharp for her mouth. Then she swallows heavily, straightening and tipping her head back as the burning steadily subsides. She thinks to look at Morana, to reassure her, but she didn't want to see the fear she can almost smell coming off of her. Instead she covers her face and leans on her elbows again.

"I'm sorry." comes the quick, muffled apology. "I wasn't ready. P-please, it-it's all right."

"I didn't mean," Morana almost whimpers, not knowing that it makes Striga's heart twist. "You're sure?"

Striga wills herself to soften, for her words to do the same. Her mind is still so thready and clouded from...everything, it's easy to forget how to...behave. "Yes. Please."

Her steps are cautious, eyes trained on Striga long before she can reach her, and there's still the makings of wanting to bolt in her physicality as she gently begins again. Striga winces, Morana stiffens, then they ease back into it.

"...So you don't remember last night?"

Striga takes a deep breath, banking the pain inside her so she can shove it down and hide it. "It's in pieces, and I don't know what order they go in. It used to be clearer but," she didn't feel the need to finish. "I don't remember hearing any gunshots, but that doesn't really mean anything."

Morana hums in confirmation. She looks the wound over, seems satisfied with its fresh cleanliness though it still looks _angry_. She sets the soiled gauze aside and reaches for another fresh patch, tape and scissors, and antibiotic ointment.

"I've...never had anyone to take care of me before."

Morana's hands pause, hovering briefly before pressing the fresh patch with a dollop of ointment gently to the wound, bracing for Striga's small, hissing jerk in response. In the moment her eyes stray, looking for and finding a number of rough looking scars across the bare skin she could see.

Striga huffs a tight laugh. "I was too stubborn to let papa do it."

"So why let me?" Morana asks without thinking.

"...I like you."

Morana chances a smirk that Striga can't see. "Do you not like your father?"

"I love him." she says quickly, confidently. "But...this is different. You're different."

"How?" Morana can't help a little chuckle.

"...You simply are." and Striga feels no need or ability to explain, in spite of how true she thinks it is. "And thank you."

Morana doesn't know what to do with that right now, so she tucks it away for later.

"You're welcome." Morana takes a breath and picks up the tape and scissors, cutting a few long strips before continuing. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

"I didn't expect you to." it's an easy, rehearsed answer.

Morana feels like she should say more, like that meager apology hadn't been enough, hadn't been convincing, but what else was there to say?

"So the whole story is true? You, the Hollow, everything?"

"I said it was. It's what drew you here to begin with, oh wandering scholar."

Morana frowns and rolls her eyes with a buzz of her lips, her hands gingerly smoothing the tape to Striga's skin. "University didn't prepare me for this...sort of thing to be real."

"Says the woman who is convinced her land lady is a vampire."

"This is _hardly_ the same thing."

"How so?"

"I _watched_ you," Morana says quickly, almost cutting her off, and her words are unsteady with a whisper she meant to hide in. "I saw you... _change_ . You became a _bear_ , but one unlike I have _ever_ seen before."

Striga nods. She's never had anyone to describe her altered shape to her before, but she always knew it wasn't what typically passed for just a wild animal. What she remembers from her time under the change is that she's enormous, heavy in every sense, and she doesn't so much walk on all fours as she lumbers on her knuckles. Her hands are always sore the morning after, the joints swollen and scraped all to hell. She could only imagine how that translated to her appearance.

"I'm glad you're safe." was all Striga could think to say about it. "Glad you listened."

"After seeing..." Morana shakes her head and starts to shuffle away, no longer having an excuse to stare at her bare - _bear_ \- back. "After that," she finds her way into the only other chair, and starts putting everything back into the kit. "I didn't have the nerve to do anything else."

Striga nods again, understanding.

It's quiet for a long while, they don't look at each other or try to, they don't move outside of the need to breathe.

"...It's all true." Morana murmurs again, then lifts her pretty, pale blue eyes. "And you are dying."

Striga expands and contracts with a shrug, resigned.

"I need you to tell me the story again."

Sable brows cock unevenly, like the corner of her mouth. "Why?"

"Everything is _different_ now, I _understand_ now!" Morana declares, her hands gesturing animatedly. "Tell me again, maybe there's an answer in it that we just haven't seen."

"Morana,"

"Please?"

Oh, there it is. Something about the way she begs makes Striga's heart clench and warmth blossom in her chest. "Fine." she shrugs, "but after I've slept, if you can manage to wait that long."

"You should bathe first. You're filthy." Comes a sympathetic suggestion.

"I'm well aware." Striga pulls herself, standing with a cautious stretch. With dragging feet she crosses the living room and disappears into the bathroom.

Mindful of the dressing on her back, Striga slowly, methodically washes herself with lethargically heavy hands. And she thinks - _think think think_ \- because there's so much to think about. She's thinking about the ticking clock, knowing she doesn't have much longer and trying to decide if she's worried or relieved by that. She's thinking about how much harder it is to remember turning and what she does and where she goes at night, because that hadn't been a problem before. She decides to file it away with that first thought, thinking they're likely linked, one begetting the other. Then there's Morana...

 _Fuck_.

Striga thinks she won't have to worry about her much longer. Chances are she's leaving right now, gathering her leather satchel with all her notebooks and her digital recorder and the last traces Striga would leave behind....

_She'll be gone. That's better, though. She'll remember you, for a little while at least, and that's all you wanted. The other things...what you want is only so important._

Striga never meant to get attached, she would admit it. She just wanted something - _someone_ \- beautiful in her life for a short while. This _could've_ been good, she thinks. Then she shrugs and lets every last thought slip out of her head.

Coming out of the bathroom she's barely covered, absently patting herself down with a towel, expecting the house to be empty aside from herself and feeling her nudity was a non-issue. But she pauses in the doorway, half turned with the intention of going to bed, and her eyes are resolutely fixed on Morana in her kitchen. Why was she still here? Yes, she needed to hear the story again, but...

Morana looks up, meeting her curious gaze. "Would you like some tea? It's almost ready."

"...I need to sleep."

"And the tea will help."

Striga brow furrows and she blinks, more puzzled than displeased. She doesn't know what to do with...any of this. "I...suppose. But...I need to lie down."

"That's all right." Is all Morana says in response, neutral, unbothered. Something else Striga doesn't know what to do with.

Striga scowls a little harder, mostly to herself, then manages to continue with her original intent of going to bed. She hangs the towel on the door and carefully crawls into bed as she is. It's cold, dark, quiet, perfect. She pulls the blankets around her and buries her face in a pillow. Yes. Perfect.

Striga doesn't get the chance to fully doze off, coming painfully close to unconsciousness before she picks up on soft steps coming into the room. She twists with a grunt, wincing at the twinge in her shoulder at the too quick movement, but it doesn't keep her from focusing on Morana moving among the shadows in the room.

"I've brought you pills for the pain." she says softly. Both her hands are full until she sets one cup of tea on the small table beside the bed, then gestures towards Striga with the other. She keeps hold of it until Striga sits up and reaches for it, then takes up her own teacup and moves to sit on the edge of the bed.

Striga nods in gratitude, fishing the two white tablets off the saucer and popping them in her mouth before taking a big mouthful. She frowns and swallows. "Ah, I forgot why I don't usually drink tea."

"Why?"

"It sucks."

Morana laughs softly and takes a sip of her own.

Striga lets her hands sit in her lip for a moment, her brow low, knitting with thought, with words she's weighing. "Why did you stay?"

"Why not?"

"That's not an answer."

Morana takes another sip, sighs with her eyes fixed on the floor. "Because I wanted to stay. Because I don't think you should be alone."

Striga blinks at her, visibly surprised.

Her heart is in her throat again, but this time for wholly different reasons, though they still centered on Striga. "And I don't want to be alone, either." Because everything she ever thought was true about the world just...isn't anymore, and she didn't want to be by herself with those thoughts rattling around her over-busy brain.

Striga's features stretch a little further, especially around her eyes even as her gaze breaks low and away. "Oh."

Neither of them are sure what that was supposed to mean, but Morana doesn't ask for clarification and Striga doesn't offer it, so they let it lie. Striga pushes through finishing her tea in one more toss, making a sour face at it as she grumbles and puts the empty cup on the side table. She lays back down with a huff, grunting at the not-so-gentle reminder of her wounded shoulder, and then rolls onto her side.

"...May I stay?" comes Morana's hesitant but soft request.

Striga's heart does something complicated, because that sounded like more than it seems and Striga wants to know if her suspicions are correct, never mind how poor of an idea it would be. Part of her wants there to be more to it, wants to explore that part specifically, but...again, bad idea.

"Give me a moment," she says unsteadily. "I will move to the sofa so you can have the bed." Because Morana is her guest, and guests get the bed.

"Don't be ridiculous." Morana counters. "I meant if I may stay _here_. With you."

Well. There's her answer.

"...I'm sorry, that was rude, I-,"

"You may." Striga can feel Morana's eyes on her, but she doesn't dare meet them, at the risk of losing her nerve and taking her words back. It may be the better, more reasonable choice, but it wasn't what she _wanted_. Right now, Striga is feeling criminally selfish.

Morana takes time to silently finish her tea, putting the empty cup beside the other on the little table and, for a short moment, simply standing beside the bed. She isn't thinking, her mind surprisingly blank, but she studies the outline of Striga's incredible frame beneath the blankets. She contemplates her, ponders what she means to do now, and decides to throw it all away. Even all of that could wait until after she had gotten some real sleep.

With great care she rounds the bed and climbs in, part of her bracing for the moment when Striga changes her mind and chases her off. But it never comes, and she finds herself somewhat shocked as she lays there, now bundled up beneath wonderfully heavy and thick blankets, meeting Striga's curious and tired eyes with her own. She holds that look for a time she doesn't think to measure, before her focus drops to Striga's hand that lays between them. Maybe she'll regret it later, maybe she won't, but Morana tempts it all the same as she slips her hand into Striga's, holding her breath in waiting to see what she does.

Those long, thick fingers slowly curl. No words, no questions, just a careful response that says more than enough.


End file.
